Mother of the Believers Part 19

Sumaya, if that is truly who it was, lowered her hand sadly and vanished into the ethereal swirl from which she had emerged. And then the sands parted as Muslim soldiers of flesh and blood, not these strange hauntings of the wind, descended on Abu Jahl from all sides and cut off his head.

I saw the disembodied head fly across the sky, carried by the unearthly wind, until it landed at my feet. I stared down at Abu Jahl's face, his thick lips curled in fear, and then saw a hand reach down and grab the grisly remains by a tuft of gray hair.

It was the Messenger of G.o.d, who held up the decapitated head of his worst enemy, blood still pouring from the severed neck tendons.

I recoiled in horror at the sight of the man I loved holding this macabre trophy. And then the Messenger turned to me and I saw that he was not exulting in the downfall of his foe. Instead he looked sad.

"He was my friend once" is all he said. And at that moment, I realized the true burden that he carried.

The wind died down and I could see that Muslims had broken through the Meccan defenses. The enemy camp was uprooted and the pagans were in disarray.

The Messenger turned to the southern face of the valley and held up the head of Abu Jahl for all to see.

"Behold the enemy of G.o.d!"

The sight of Abu Jahl's severed skull cheered the Muslims and sent the Meccans into a panicky retreat. I watched as our enemies, armed with the finest weapons and sparkling ringed armor, fled over the southern pa.s.s, leaving the field of Badr covered in a sea of corpses.

EVERY VICTORY HAS A price. price.

That night we returned to Medina, the younger men joyfully boasting of their prowess, while the more mature thanked G.o.d for His miraculous aid on the battlefield. We had killed over seventy of the most prominent leaders of Quraysh, the "best morsels of Mecca's liver," as the Messenger called them. Aside from Abu Jahl and Utbah, the day had seen the death of Umayya-at the hands of his former slave Bilal, whom he had once tortured in the public square of Mecca. The gentle African whose beautiful voice summoned us to prayers had avenged himself on the battlefield, impaling his former master on the end of a spear.

Along with the mighty lords who had been slain, we had captured over fifty of the highest-ranking n.o.blemen of the city, who were now tied together like common slaves and dragged back to the oasis. Some would be ransomed in the weeks to come. And others would be executed for their past crimes. In one day, nearly the entire leadership of Mecca had been killed or captured.

We were giddy with joy, overwhelmed with our feeling that G.o.d was truly with us. As the men sang songs of victory, I ignored the demands of modesty and loudly joined in. Only the Messenger remained silent, pensive, although he finally smiled when we entered the streets of Medina and were met with the jubilation of the crowds.

The captives were taken away to be temporarily housed in barns and storage rooms, since the city as yet had no prisons. Those who were to be spared execution would eventually be allowed to live with some dignity in the houses of Muslim families until their people ransomed them. The Messenger had made it clear that prisoners of war were guests and had to be treated with the Arab tradition of hospitality until their fate was determined.

The Prophet led the joyful warriors to the Masjid, where he was planning to deliver a sermon to mark this momentous occasion. But as he approached the courtyard, I saw him stop in his tracks and grasp at his heart.

For a moment, terror gripped me that he was ill or had been injured unknowingly during the battle. But then he stood up tall and turned, his face full of grief more than physical pain. And then I saw a man standing alone by the doorway of a grand house that stood near the Masjid. It was the kindly Uthman, who had been excused from battle to take care of Ruqayya, whose fever had returned.

I saw tears glistening on Uthman's cheeks and felt a terrible sense of foreboding.

"What has happened?" the Messenger asked, his voice cracking.

Uthman bowed his head, breathing in rapid gulps of grief.

"Your daughter Ruqayya...she fell ill...and...and...I'm sorry..."

I suddenly felt my husband teeter, as if his legs were giving way. I grabbed him from behind, but I was too small to keep him standing. Umar saw what was happening and grasped the Messenger by the shoulders to keep him from collapsing.

And then a sudden scream erupted from inside Uthman's house. The doors flew open and I saw Fatima emerge. Faster than my eye could capture, she was in the Messenger's arms, crying out in such horrifying wails of grief that my blood filled with ice.

There was something so visceral about Fatima's screams that I felt myself being swept up into another world. A primordial realm where the idea of sorrow itself is born in the mind of G.o.d. Her wails spread like a brushfire and suddenly all the women in the city were caught in her grief, beating their b.r.e.a.s.t.s and weeping for the Prophet's daughter.

Ruqayya, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, was gone.

As the Prophet held Fatima close, I looked at her in awe and fear. The unearthly sounds that were coming from her throat had a power unlike any I had ever heard before.

It was as if when Fatima wept, the world itself wept.

6.

Muawiya, the son of Abu Sufyan, watched as the defeated Meccan army sulked back into the city. The men looked more confused than humiliated, unable to understand what had happened on the battlefield of Badr. The exhausted soldiers, dehydrated from the long trek through the desert, slumped toward the well of Zamzam, ignoring the accusing looks of the women who had heard of their devastating defeat at the hands of a pathetic little raiding party.

His father gazed at his vanquished comrades in shock. Abu Sufyan looked through the crowd, stinking of blood and urine, for the other leaders of the a.s.sembly. But he saw no sign of the great lords who had controlled the city for decades.

"Where is Abu al-Hakam?" he called out loudly for the man whom the Muslims referred to as Abu Jahl.

A young man whom Muawiya recognized as a silversmith named Nawaf bin Talal stumbled by with the help of makeshift crutches of palm wood. His right foot had been shattered by a spear and had turned an ugly green, almost definitely requiring amputation.

"Slain" was all Nawaf said as he stopped to rest against a wooden post used to tie camels.

Muawiya's eyebrows rose. This was an important development. Abu Jahl had been his father's long-standing rival for control of the council. With him out of the way, there were few impediments to Abu Sufyan seizing total control over Mecca. Perhaps, he thought with a secret smile, his childhood dream of becoming the king of the Arabs might still be realizable.

And then Muawiya felt the air grow colder around him as it always did when his mother appeared. Hind had heard the news of the Meccan defeat and had come to personally release her rage on the incompetents who had ruined her well-crafted plan.

She spit at the train of wounded and tired soldiers and let her voice rise until it resounded off the stone walls of the ancient city.

"Maybe next time we should send the women of Mecca to fight, since there are clearly no men among you!"

Nawaf 's weary face contorted and he stepped forward, despite the obvious agony of his crushed heel. And then he did something that no one had ever dared.

He spit in Hind's face.

"Hold your tongue, woman, for you speak ill of your own father."

Hind stood there, her mouth open. The glob of mucus hung from her cheek like a yellow tear. Muawiya had never seen her so taken aback. All the blood drained from Hind's face, leaving her olive skin a sickly green not dissimilar to Nawaf 's dying foot.

"Father...no..." She gripped her chest as if she had to pressure her heart to keep beating.

"Not just your father, Utbah." Nawaf sneered. "But your brother Waleed and your uncle Shaybah as well."

Hind's eyes flew to the back of her head, and she fell to the ground, wailing like a madwoman. She tore her clothes with her talonlike fingernails and poured sand over her hair in grief.

"Who did it?! Who killed my father?!"

Nawaf gathered his crutches and began to hobble away, undoubtedly toward a surgeon who could do the ugly work that was needed to save his life. He turned back and threw out a name, like a man tossing sc.r.a.ps to a dog.

"Hamza."

Hind's face went from green to bright red as her fury built inside her. She began to dig her nails into her own cheeks, drawing blood.

Muawiya saw the crowd's fascination with his mother's performance, both riveted and repulsed, and decided that it would be a good time to announce what needed to be said at long last in public.

"We must end this before more good men of Quraysh die. It is time for a truce with Muhammad," Muawiya said, his young voice echoing through the streets. He saw the warning look on his father's face but ignored it. If he were ever going to fulfill his destiny as the leader of the Arab nation, he had to reach an accommodation with the man who was doing the hard work of uniting the desert tribes for him.

There were loud murmurs of a.s.sent from the people, but his words were like a hot needle tearing into Hind's wound.

"No!" she screamed, more demon than woman. "There will be no truce!"

And then she was on her feet and racing toward the Sanctuary. She tore open her robes, exposing her perfectly rounded b.r.e.a.s.t.s to the idols. She ran her bloodstained hands across her flesh sensuously.

"Hear me, O sons of Mecca!" Hind cried out in a voice that was not quite human. "The martyrs of Badr will be avenged! The enemy will be crushed beneath our feet! If you do not have the courage, then your women will march without you! We will tear their eyes from their skulls! Rip off their ears and wear them on our necklaces! We shall eat of their flesh! Their hearts! Their livers! Who among you is man enough to join us?!"

Her throaty screams, her sheer insane pa.s.sion, boiled the blood of the Meccans. Muawiya watched in despair as the crowd fled from his side and surrounded her, spinning and dancing with the frenzy she inspired. Soon, both men and women were chanting along with Hind, mesmerized by her spell.

Muawiya shook his head, awed and frightened by his mother's ability to capture the minds of the ma.s.ses. They were like flies caught in a glittering web as she steadily crept up to feed upon their souls. He turned to Abu Sufyan, who had just been handed the keys of Mecca with Abu Jahl's death and yet looked increasingly old and irrelevant.

"Behold, Father, how a woman steals your throne," Muawiya said contemptuously. "But fear not, one day I shall regain the honor of the House of Umayya."

And with that, the brooding young man walked away, his mind racing with thoughts of how to turn the troubling course of events to his advantage.

7.

Even as our enemies plotted against us in Mecca, a new threat was rising on our very doorsteps. The Muslim victory at Badr had changed the political map of the peninsula. The Ummah Ummah had been transformed from a small and insignificant community into a force to be reckoned with, not just for Arabs but for Jews. had been transformed from a small and insignificant community into a force to be reckoned with, not just for Arabs but for Jews.

Yathrib was the ancient home of three Jewish tribes-the Bani Qaynuqa, the Bani Nadir, and the Bani Qurayza. In the beginning, the Jews had cautiously welcomed the Messenger's arrival as the new arbiter. Muhammad was clearly a man committed to establishing justice and order in the oasis and ending the tribal wars that pitted not only Arabs against Arabs but sometimes Jews against Jews. The Messenger had drafted a treaty of mutual defense whereby the Jewish and Arab tribes would unite against any attacker but both would be free to follow their own religion.

But it was that very matter of religion that had quickly led to strife. My husband claimed to be a prophet in the line of Moses and the Jewish messengers. He had ordered us to pray toward Jerusalem and even fasted on the Jewish Day of Atonement, which they called Yom Kippur and we knew as Ashura. And yet the Jews had made it clear that he could not possibly be a prophet of their G.o.d, since they alone were the Chosen People. The Arabs, even though they were descended from Abraham through his first son, Ishmael, were not included in G.o.d's covenant. The Messenger had been shocked and saddened by their rejection. To him, G.o.d's message was for all mankind. How could it be that only one tribe would be privy to His Word? And yet the Jews held steadfast to their ancient beliefs and did not shy away from branding Muhammad as an impostor. And the relations between our communities had quickly chilled.

But not all of the Jews of Medina were hostile to us. A rabbi named Husayn ibn Sallam had come to respect the Messenger as a sincere man seeking to bring the Arabs a better religion than the barbaric idolatry in which they were immersed. Ibn Sallam worked tirelessly to build bridges between the two faiths, to the derision of many among his own clan. His public show of friendship with Muhammad had cost him dearly, and the rabbi had become increasingly isolated from his fellow believers.

And there was another, more private, supporter among the Jewish tribes. A beautiful girl named Safiya, daughter of the Jewish chieftain Huyayy ibn Akhtab of the Bani Nadir. When she had first heard that a prophet had arrived from the south, claiming to bring the Word of G.o.d to a wayward people, Safiya had been swept away by the romance of the idea. She had always loved her father's tales of Moses confronting the Pharaoh and leading G.o.d's people to freedom. Of Elijah standing up to the hubris of Jezebel and her Israelite puppet Ahab. Jeremiah, Isaiah, Ezra-all messengers of the G.o.d of Israel who had stood in defiance of power with the humble strength of truth.

Ever since she was a girl, Safiya had fantasized about living in those days, when G.o.d spoke to men and the world was renewed by heroes of faith. Growing up as the daughter of a tribal leader and politician, she had watched the difficulties of ordering life in the desert and the troubling choices her beloved father, Huyayy, had to make to keep his people safe in the wilderness. Safiya had longed for G.o.d to send another prophet and take away her father's burdens. To clarify right from wrong with the sword of justice so that the shadows of ambiguity that weighed on men's souls would vanish under the rays of divine law.

So when word spread through the oasis of a prophet who spoke words of power that changed men's souls, she had been filled with wonder. Could it be that her prayer had been answered, that she had indeed lived to see the coming of G.o.d's Chosen One, the man whom her people had hoped for since the days the Temple walls fell into oblivion? But she had quickly learned that her people did not share her enthusiasm and that her father in particular viewed the rise of this Arab prophet as a threat to Jewish survival.

Safiya had buried her fascination with Muhammad in her heart. She kept wisely silent when she heard her father mock the man, denigrating the claim of this illiterate Arab to divine inspiration. And yet, over the past two years, this illiterate Arab's power had only grown, and her father no longer dismissed him as a madman. Muhammad's movement could not be ignored as a foolish cult anymore. The world was changing around them, and Muhammad's increasing power had become a source of alarm for the Jewish tribes.

And so it was that Safiya watched one night as three men sat glumly in her house, trying to make sense of a world they no longer recognized. Her father had invited Kab, the chieftain of the Jewish tribe Bani Qurayza, as well as their Arab ally Ibn Ubayy for what had become a weekly meeting to discuss the changing political face of Medina. But the three chieftains had sat around Huyayy's elegant cedar table for almost an hour without a word, each lost in his own thoughts about the remarkable Muslim victory at Badr and what it meant for the oasis. Safiya served them honey cakes, which remained untouched. Unable to bear the silence any longer, she finally decided to speak up.

"Why do you not rejoice, Father?" she asked casually, but with full knowledge that the subject was no casual matter. "Your allies have won a victory against the idolaters."

Huyayy gave her a sharp look. "These men of Quraysh I have known for many years," he responded. "Idolaters they may have been, but they were honest in their trade. I take no pleasure in their deaths."

The Arab chieftain Ibn Ubayy grasped his wine goblet and took a long sip. He appeared calm, but anger burned inside him.

"Muhammad's victory has convinced these Muslims that G.o.d is truly on their side," he said with an incredulous tone.

Safiya hesitated. She knew that she was pushing her luck, but she needed to say what was in her heart.

"Perhaps he is," she said courageously. "Rabbi Ibn Sallam says-"

Huyayy knocked over his winegla.s.s, the purple stain rapidly spreading over the beige table coverlet.

"Don't quote that old fool to me!" Like many, Huyayy was discomfited by the broad-minded rabbi's willingness to test the boundaries of Jewish tradition and scripture.

Safiya recoiled as if she had been slapped. She could feel her cheeks grow warm with hurt. Her father had changed so much since Muhammad had arrived in Medina. Normally boisterous and kind, he had become increasingly brooding and p.r.i.c.kly. And she blamed the treacherous Ibn Ubayy for poisoning his mind with plots and fears.

As Safiya turned to leave, her head held proudly, she was surprised to feel her father's strong hand take hold of her wrist.

"Forgive me, my daughter," he said softly. "The world is changing so rapidly. I feel lost."

It was the first truly honest thing he had said to her in months.

"You should indeed feel lost," Ibn Ubayy said with a sympathetic look. "The balance of power has shifted dangerously. The Muslims have been emboldened by their victory at Badr. They consider it a clear miracle for such a small band to rout a powerful army."

Kab, the chieftain of Bani Qurayza, laughed coldly.

"Miracle? Bah. The Meccans were overconfident and underprepared. There is no miracle in hubris and poor planning."

"Be that as it may, Muhammad's victory will raise his standing among the tribes of Arabia," Ibn Ubayy said pointedly. "He has proven that Yathrib is a formidable threat to the northern caravan routes. Soon the tribes will send him heralds seeking alliance in order to protect their trade. And where will that leave your people, my friend?"

"Where it always does," Huyayy answered bitterly. "As outsiders."

Safiya knew that this Arab was seeking to use her people to advance his own ambitions, regardless of what the consequences might be for the Jews. And she would be d.a.m.ned if she would let him play her father like a Bedouin flute.

"Do not rush to such judgments, Father," she said quickly, ignoring Ibn Ubayy's piercing gaze. "Muhammad has kept his end of the treaty. As long as we remain steadfast to the truce, we will prosper from the trade that these new alliances will secure for Yathrib."

Ibn Ubayy rose and approached her. She instinctively moved back. The chieftain of Khazraj maneuvered himself between Huyayy and his daughter, his eyes never leaving hers.

"You have a good heart, my dear, but alas, you are a rare and precious flower," he said with an air of affected sorrow. "The truth is, most men's hearts are not like yours. They are filled with greed and jealousy. Even if your people prosper under Muhammad's reign, what do you think will happen? The Muslims will resent you for your skill in bargaining. They will claim that you are stealing from them, h.o.a.rding the wealth that belongs to their community."

He was, of course, striking the very nerves that had been rubbed raw in the memories of her people. Their history was filled with such betrayals and Ibn Ubayy knew exactly the impact his calculated words would have. And to make matters worse, his old ally Kab, the head of Bani Qurayza, nodded in quick agreement.

"It is what always happens to our people, Safiya," he said, sounding like a wise uncle reasoning with a stubborn child. "Since the days of Jacob and his sons, the world has resented our tribe for its prowess in commerce. Whenever we flourish, the nations conspire to take it away from us."

"You are wise to look at history, my friend," Ibn Ubayy continued. "This is not the first time that an impostor has risen, claiming to speak for your G.o.d. And what do your rabbis say must be done when a false prophet is in your midst?"

Kab began to glean where his Arab friend's argument was leading. He leaned close to Huyayy, who looked weary from the weight of the conversation.